


Pet Project

by Scrawlers



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Found Family, Gen, Papa Sycamore, Papa Wolf!Sycamore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 10:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8140784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrawlers/pseuds/Scrawlers
Summary: Two years ago, when Lysandre first brought Alan into his service and gave him the Key Stone and Charizardite, he had a failsafe created just in case Alan ever decided to betray him. When Alan sees the chaos wreaked upon Lumiose City in the wake of Lysandre’s plans coming to fruition, that failsafe—Project Essentia—is put into action.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first part was written on August 30th, and as a result was written before XYZ040 aired. As a result, this diverges quite a bit from how the Flare arc ended up playing out, and some of the details don't quite line up with canon (for instance, the purpose of the mega evolution energy Ash is hit with differs in this fic from how it played out in canon), but since it's an AU/canon divergence anyway, I hope that's all right.
> 
> For reference, Gabrielle/Gabby is the nickname I headcanon for Professor Sycamore's garchomp, and I headcanon likewise that Alan nicknamed his charizard Lizardon back when his charizard was still a charmander.

It was the sound of a garchomp’s—of _Gabby’s_ —cry that compelled Alan to look over the edge of Prism Tower again.

It was already difficult for him to breathe; every breath came out in strangled, short gasps even as he tried to take in deeper lungfuls of air, tried calm down enough so that he could concentrate, so that he could _focus_ , so that he could think past the roar in his head and every screaming, racing thought that urged him to cover his ears even though that wouldn’t block any of it out. But when he looked down over the edge and saw that Gabby was there—saw that Professor Sycamore was there, saw that _Manon_ was there, and that all of them were fighting two of Team Flare’s scientists—he felt his heart lodge in his throat. They were there—they were all there. Manon was there, Gabby was there, _the Professor_ was there, and he, Alan, was—was—!

He shoved his trembling hand into his pocket, fumbling for Lizardon’s pokéball. He was helping, he was going to help, he was going to send Lizardon to go help them—

He had just pulled Lizardon’s pokéball free from his pocket when the director’s—when _Lysandre’s_ hand snapped over his right wrist, twisting it as he yanked Alan’s arm back and down. Alan grit his teeth, refusing to let even the smallest of sounds escape his throat, and glowered up at Lysandre, who stared coldly back at him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lysandre asked. Despite his glacial stare, he didn’t raise his voice above the same conversational pitch he had been using since Alan reached the top of the tower. “I don’t remember telling you to release a pokémon.”

“You aren’t going to tell me anything anymore,” Alan snapped. He shifted Lizardon’s pokéball to the tips of his fingers. If he held it like this, and reached around with his other hand—

Lysandre’s eyes narrowed, and in the next second he switched his hold Alan’s wrist to his other hand, which he then used to yank Alan toward him. Alan stumbled (and felt a flash of panic as Lizardon’s pokéball slipped from his fingers, bouncing harmlessly against the steel platform of the tower), but had no time to recover before Lysandre grabbed his left arm and yanked it up behind his back.

Pain, sharp and searing, spiked from Alan’s left shoulder, and this time he couldn’t stop himself from crying out, couldn’t help the spots that exploded in front of his eyes, rendering him momentarily unable to think of much else. Lysandre gave his left arm an extra tug, and another jolt of pain shot through him. Alan squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth and doing his best to breathe (just breathe, just focus on breathing—) through his nose.

“Alan!” Ash shouted, but he sounded far off, even allowing for how he was pinned against the side of the tower.

“Hmm,” Lysandre said, sounding for all the world like he was observing the growth of his newest tomato plant, “you never did have your shoulder treated, did you?”

“Why are you asking a question you already know the answer to?” Alan bit out. His vision swam for a moment when he opened his eyes again, and Lysandre chuckled without humor.

“I’m making an attempt at courteous conversation. I’m aware that isn’t one of your strong suits,” he said. He paused for a moment, and when Alan didn’t rise to the bait, the civility dropped from his tone. “You know better than to try fighting me, Alan. This is your last chance. Don’t make me do something you’ll regret.”

Even amidst the police sirens, helicopter blades, and the guttural roars of both Zygarde as they fought, Alan could still hear the cries and shrieks of the pokémon and people battling at the base of Prism Tower. He could still see, even if he wasn’t directly looking at him, Ash above him—could still remember how Manon's chespin, who no doubt hadn’t received an ounce of the mega evolution energy Alan had worked tirelessly to collect, had looked as he lay prone upon his hospital bed, Manon sobbing her heart out beside him. Lizardon’s pokéball was beyond his reach. Restrained as he was, Alan couldn’t call upon one of his other pokémon, either. Ash could die pinned to the tower, Professor Sycamore and Manon could face the same fate down below, the entire city was being destroyed and people were dying and Lysandre—

Lysandre was glad for it. He was proud of it. He wanted—had seemed to want—Alan to enjoy it with him.

Alan looked back over his shoulder, ignoring the new stab of pain in his throbbing shoulder as he did so, and glared at Lysandre with every ounce of loathing he could muster as he spat:

“Go to Hell.”

Lysandre’s expression contorted to one of displeasure for only a moment before he sighed. “So be it,” he said, and then called a little more loudly, “Xerosic.”

Xerosic responded immediately, his voice echoing from the same speaker he had used to announce the completion of Ash’s preparations. _“Yes, Director?”_

“It’s time,” Lysandre said. “Come and get him.”

Xerosic laughed, practically giddy as he crowed, _“Yes, sir! Right away!”_

Alan could feel his heart thudding against his ribcage, a cold sweat breaking out over his skin despite the heat of the evening. “It’s time for what?” he demanded, and he was grateful for the fact that his voice sounded stronger than he felt.

Lysandre stared evenly back at him, but the smallest of smiles curled his lips.

“You’ll see,” he said.

**\- - -**

The Lumiose Gym—and Prism Tower as a whole, really—was infested with Team Flare grunts.

Augustine and Clemont dispatched the two scientists guarding the entrance, and despite the fact that grunts were still swarming from all sides in an attempt to provide reinforcements, the moment the scientists were out of his way Clemont sprinted for the Gym doors. Augustine had exchanged only one look with Meyer before he followed Clemont inside; one look was all they needed for Meyer to know that Augustine would keep an eye on Meyer’s son, even as Augustine headed for the top of the tower to look for his own.

And so while Meyer worked to prevent more Flare grunts from entering the tower (and Serena and Manon headed off somewhere else—Augustine hadn’t had a chance to catch the reason why before Clemont dashed into the Gym), Augustine and Clemont fought their way to the top. It wasn’t overly difficult; none of the pokémon the grunts threw at Gabrielle were a match for her, and Clemont’s pokémon were as furious about the Gym’s hostile takeover as Clemont himself was. His luxray in particular seemed to take personal offense, and as a result she leaped into the fray with her claws outstretched before Clemont had a chance to give her an order more than once.

They parted ways on the last floor before the top of the tower. Like the other floors, the last was infested with Team Flare grunts; unlike the others, it also contained yet another Team Flare scientist, this time in the form of a larger man with a wisp of crimson hair who seemed to take delight in belittling and riling ten-year-old boys.

“Trust me, I wouldn’t base my operations here if it wasn’t the Director’s orders,” he had sneered. “After all, the technology here is _archaic_.”

That was all it took for Clemont to sic his luxray on the scientist’s malamar, who swooped forward to take the attack head-on.

“Go!” Clemont shouted at Augustine, causing Gabrielle—who had stepped forward to help—to stop in her attacks. “I’ll take care of him—you go!”

“Are you sure?” Augustine asked, and he frowned as he remembered Meyer down below. “I promised your—Blaziken Mask that I—”

“I’m more than enough for him,” Clemont said. Furious tears had built up in his eyes, but they didn’t fall even as his voice shook. “Team Flare’s boss is on top of the tower, isn’t he? You go take care of him; I’ll meet you up there when I’ve cleaned up down here! Lux, Thunder Fang!”

Clemont’s luxray unleashed a primal yowl before she buried her sparking fangs into the side of the scientist’s malamar, and several grunts yelped as they hastily scrambled out of the way of the ensuing battle. There was no time to argue it. Neither Ash nor Alan were inside the tower, which meant that they were on the top. And if they were up there with Lysandre—

“Be careful,” Augustine said. Clemont didn’t look at him as he nodded and shouted another directive for his luxray. With one glance at Gabrielle (and a warning glare to any of the grunts who looked as if they might interfere), Augustine headed for the top.

At first, he saw nothing upon emerging onto the top of the tower except the vivid red of the evening sunset, and the thrashing of both Zygarde on the other side of the tower. But as his eyes readjusted to the glow of the setting sun (and his lungs readjusted to the acrid smell of smoke on the air) and he made his way onto the platform proper, two things caught Augustine’s attention:

One, Lysandre was standing on the edge of the tower, looking over the city like a monarch surveying his kingdom.

Two, the red glow that blanketed the tower was not entirely from the sun, but was instead partially caused by a current of furious red energy running through Ash and his team, all seven of whom were pinned up against the side of the tower.

For all that he had prepared himself to expect the worst—for all that he had known that Ash was likely to be in danger—he hadn’t expected this. It took a moment for him to regain his composure, but when he did he ran the rest of the way out to the center of the platform, staring up at Ash with a gaping mouth and nausea swirling in the pit of his stomach.

“Ash!”

The energy charge stopped suddenly, and while Ash had been rigid under it before, he (and his pokémon too, Augustine noticed—they all looked beyond exhausted) slumped in his restraints the second it let up. But while Augustine could see him shaking even from where he stood, it took Ash only a second before he lifted his head and gave Augustine a (mercifully) lucid stare.

“Professor Sycamore?” he said, and he thankfully didn’t _sound_ much worse for the wear either. He blinked, and then his eyes widened. “Professor, you’ve got to—”

“Hold on,” Augustine said, “We’ll get you down from there. Gabrielle—!”

“No! Never mind me, I’m fine!” Ash said, and as Augustine opened his mouth to protest (he was clearly anything _but_ fine), Ash cut across him. “It’s not me you should worry about! Lysandre—”

“He isn’t exaggerating, you know. Ash has proven himself to be rather resilient. But then, such hardiness is no less than what I’d expect from a Chosen One.”

Augustine had known Lysandre was at the top of the tower. Even setting aside how he had expected it, he had spotted him upon first making it to the top. But somehow, the shock of seeing Ash bound as he was had driven Lysandre from Augustine’s mind; it had caused him to forget, however briefly, that they weren’t the only two on the tower top.

But Lysandre’s voice, even more than Ash’s warning, was all the reminder Augustine needed. As a low snarl built in Gabrielle’s throat, Augustine felt an icy sort of rage begin pumping adrenaline through his own veins, and he didn’t make even a passing attempt at civility as he turned to glare in the face of Lysandre’s smirk.

“This is part of your plan, is it?” Augustine asked quietly, and he raised one hand to gesture at the crumbling city sprawled around the tower. “All of this is your design?”

“Of course. To build a peaceful world, one must start from the ground up,” Lysandre said. “Removing clutter to have a smooth foundation to build from is a crucial first step.”

Augustine’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “People are dying, Lysandre.”

“Yes. I know.” Lysandre turned back to look out over the city again. In one hand he held a maximized pokéball, and he tossed it casually in the air before he caught it again. “Their bodies will form the foundation that those chosen to remain will build from. If you think about it, they should be honored to form the bedrock of a peaceful new world.”

Blood was pounding in Augustine’s ears as he said, “Gabrielle.” He still didn’t know where Alan was. He didn’t seem to be anywhere on the top of the tower. But if he defeated Lysandre, that would be enough. Alan would be safe. Wherever he was, so long as Lysandre was out of the picture—

But as Gabrielle stepped forward, poised and ready to strike, Lysandre merely glanced at Augustine out of the corner of his eye before he scoffed and looked back out over the city. He tossed the pokéball up and caught it again. “There’s no need for that,” he said. “I have no intention of battling you, Professor Sycamore.”

“That pokéball in your hand would say otherwise,” Augustine said.

“This isn’t mine.” Lysandre tossed it up and caught it again. “I’m only holding onto it for now.”

It wasn’t relevant, really, but— “For what purpose?”

“Professor, that’s what I was trying to tell you,” Ash said. Augustine glanced back at him to see that Ash was once again pulling at the restraints, Pikachu struggling to wriggle out of his own. “He’s got—!”

“Insurance, mostly,” Lysandre said. He now had a steady rhythm going with the pokéball, leisurely rolling it into the air off his fingers before catching it again. “But even outside of that it’s nice to have. A debt collector might keep a luxury car as collateral, but that doesn’t mean they don’t enjoy having it while they do.”

Lysandre may as well have been speaking gibberish for all the sense he made, but it didn’t matter. There were more pressing things to worry about than the riddles of a madman. “Whether that’s your pokémon or not—whether you want to battle me or not—I’m still challenging you. This ends now.”

Lysandre was quiet for a moment, repeating the toss-catch motion with the pokéball twice more, before he laughed softly. “If you truly want to battle, I won’t stop you,” he said. “But I’m not going to be your opponent.”

“Yes, you are. I—!”

Lysandre clicked the fingers of his free hand, the sound somehow sounding loud and clear amidst the chaos of the city, right along with his voice as he said: “Alan.”

Augustine’s heart stilled in his chest.

The light of the sitting sun, combined with the blaze of radiation that had been channeled into Ash before, had cast such a shadow against part of the tower that Augustine hadn’t noticed him standing there before. But the moment Lysandre snapped his fingers—a second before Lysandre even said his _name_ , something which Augustine had a sick feeling was more for _his_ benefit than Alan’s—Alan stepped out from the shadows along the side of the building and walked calmly to stand behind Lysandre. Lysandre didn’t turn, but Augustine could still see his smirk from his profile.

“Here is your opponent,” Lysandre said. “I trust you’ll find him suitable.”

Part of Augustine—a strong part, a part that thrashed against his throat and begged to get off his tongue—wanted to retort and tell Lysandre exactly what he found suitable and what Lysandre could do with that information. But a stronger part—a more _urgent_ part—of Augustine had eyes only for Alan.

At first glance, Alan looked no different than he had at the League. He was still wearing his black travel jacket, and the scarf that Augustine had sent him for his thirteenth birthday. His hair was still in a windswept disarray that brought into question whether or not it had been combed recently, and even from his distance Augustine could still see the telltale signs of sleep deprivation in the shadows beneath Alan’s eyes.

But that was where the problem started.

Even with how guarded he had been at the League—even with how tired, how _depressed_ he had looked—Alan had still looked alert. His eyes had been bright, wary; he had always been observant, even as a small child, with the type of rapt attention that made it difficult for anything to escape his notice. But the stare he gave Augustine now was blank—empty. He was looking straight at him, yet Augustine had the feeling that Alan didn’t see him at all.

“Alan?” he said. When he received no response, even in the form of a _blink_ , he made his voice a little louder. “Alan! Hey, Alan!”

Nothing. Alan remained perfectly still, his only movement coming from the way the wind ruffled his hair.

Augustine turned back to Lysandre, who was openly smiling as he surveyed the city. “What did you do to him?” he demanded, the words _this time_ poised just behind his teeth.

“Nothing,” Lysandre said, and it was a little appalling at how easily the obvious lie fell from his lips. “I’ve been here the whole time. Ash can confirm that for you, if you’d like.”

“That Xerosic guy took Alan into the tower a little while ago,” Ash said. “I don’t know what he did, but—!”

Ash’s voice choked off in a strangled yelp as the radiation was blasted into him again, and as Augustine whipped around to star eat him in alarm, Lysandre heaved an affected sigh.

“If you would synchronize with Greninja, this would stop happening,” he said. “You only need to do it once, Ash. Just once, and the whole world will be saved.”

“Like I’d believe that!” Ash spat, his voice taut with pain. “Professor Sycamore, you’ve got to—!”

“Professor Sycamore is going to battle, isn’t he?” Lysandre asked, and he finally turned to face him. “You have your opponent now. I know he’s more than enough to keep you busy.”

“I won’t battle him,” Augustine said, and beside him Gabrielle growled in agreement. “Battle me—battle _us_ yourself, Lysandre.”

“I don’t have time for that. I have to oversee the creation of a new world,” Lysandre said. “Besides, he wants to battle you. Don’t you, Alan?”

Two seconds passed, almost as if Alan hadn’t heard the question despite how Lysandre was standing right beside him, but then—in a voice somehow less lively than Clembot—Alan replied, “Yes.”

It wasn’t Alan. It wasn’t him, not really. Whatever Lysandre had done to him had rendered him empty, not himself. But all the same, that cold stare—that response, even if it wasn’t immediate, even if it was toneless and almost artificial—still hurt.

“Alan,” Augustine tried again. “Don’t listen to him. Come here, I can help you—”

“Help him? How do you plan to do that?” Lysandre asked. If it had been anyone else, his curiosity might have sounded genuine. “You haven’t spoken to him in years. You don’t have the faintest idea of what he needs help with, much less how to provide it. And even if you did have an idea of what you needed to ‘help him’ with, he doesn’t have any idea of who you are.”

“That’s a lie,” Augustine snapped.

Lysandre smiled. “Is it? Look at him for yourself, Professor Sycamore; does this look like the face of a boy who recognizes you?”

Alan’s stare was as devoid of emotion—of _recognition_ —as it had been before, but Augustine wasn’t about to admit that. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, and Lysandre seemed to take that as all the confirmation he needed.

“He isn’t yours anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time. I understand that may be difficult for you to accept, but this is a new world; there are many changes coming your way.” Lysandre put his hand on Alan’s shoulder. “This is only the beginning.”

Gabrielle’s snarl echoed across the rooftop, and white-hot rage lashed inside Augustine. “Get your hands off him!”

Lysandre’s smirked at Augustine a second more, his hand remaining where it was, before he turned to Alan with a more serious expression. “Take care of him, Alan. Don’t stop until you’ve finished the job. I will not tolerate failure. Understood?”

Like before, a second or two passed before Alan answered. “Yes.”

Lysandre smiled again, and he gave Alan’s shoulder an affectionate pat before releasing him at last. “Good. I’ll leave him to you. I trust you’ll make me proud.”

A brief delay, and then— “Yes, sir.”

Lysandre stepped back, then—creating space for the battle—and as Augustine and Gabrielle started forward, Alan showed the barest traces of life at last. He lifted his head up, his eyes falling on Gabrielle, and for a second—for a brief, hopeful moment—Augustine thought Alan might recognize her. He knew Gabrielle—he loved Gabrielle, had been the one to bring her home. But that moment of consideration passed, and with it Augustine’s hope as Alan reached into his pocket, selected a pokéball, and tossed it forward with a lethargic flick of his wrist.

In contrast to Alan’s apathy, his weavile appeared with her claws at the ready, her fangs bared in a wild grin. Gabrielle hissed and took a step back, immediately defensive, and given her typing, Augustine couldn’t say he blamed her. If anything, he could say he agreed with the unpleasant shock he knew she was feeling. Augustine himself had, however subconsciously, been expecting Lizardon. He had known Alan had other pokémon, had seen this weavile in action during the League, but he had thought—he had hoped—for Lizardon. But Lizardon would never battle Gabrielle, and if there was a part of Alan still awake enough to recognize that . . .

“Alan,” he said again, and he took another step forward, standing level with Gabrielle. “We don’t have to do this. Listen to me, whatever this is, you can fight it—”

“Weavile,” Alan interrupted, his voice as monotonous as before, “Ice Beam.”

Lizardon would have never battled Gabrielle, but Alan’s weavile would. Without hesitating for a second his weavile leaped into the air, a chill sweeping over the tower seconds before a harsh beam of ice blasted straight at Gabrielle’s face.

“Gabrielle, dodge!” Augustine shouted.

She didn’t need to be told twice. Gabrielle threw herself out of the way, pivoting around Augustine. The Ice Beam slammed into the tower platform instead, causing the tower to shake, and pinned up against the side of the tower, several of Ash’s pokémon (Noivern and Goodra especially) cried out in alarm. Augustine looked back at Alan.

“Alan—!”

“Again.”

In response to Alan’s dispassionate command, his weavile pursued Gabrielle around the platform, shards of ice forming around her snout as she readied another ice beam. Gabrielle’s lips pulled back in a snarl, and because he had to—because he couldn’t stand there and let Gabrielle be attacked like this, because Alan wasn’t listening and Augustine didn’t know how else to get through to him—he shouted, “Gabrielle, Hyper Beam!”

Gabrielle leaped back to create more distance between herself and the weavile, golden light building in the back of her throat, and from his position standing behind Alan across the tower, Lysandre smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter carries content warnings for the following: mentions of self-harm, suicide, and a very brief bout of dehumanizing language.

Ash didn’t understand.

The person battling Professor Sycamore wasn’t . . . he wasn’t . . . he wasn’t _Alan_.

He couldn’t have been. Ash was there (of course he was) when Xerosic and three grunts had come out onto the tower to drag Alan back inside. He had watched as Alan struggled despite his injured shoulder, had watched as one of the grunts wrapped an arm around his throat and the other two secured his arms to drag him—thrashing (and wincing and gritting his teeth against the pain from his injury)—inside. Their eyes had met, briefly, when Alan looked up at him, Alan’s expression crumpling into an expression of despair and guilt for just a moment before the grunts yanked him back into the tower. And Ash had watched as, some time later, Alan exited the tower on his own, walking calmly and answering Lysandre’s questions with nothing more than, “yes, sir.”

Ash had witnessed all of that, and while he couldn’t understand the shift in Alan’s behavior—while he didn’t know what Xerosic had done—he had still thought that it was, somehow, still Alan, that there was something _wrong_ with him, but that the person—the _friend_ Ash knew was still somewhere there, inside. Whatever had happened, whatever was going on, whatever reason why Alan was complying, Ash had felt that it wasn’t entirely real, that Alan was still . . . that he was still _Alan_.

But _this_ . . . inside the spherical metal restraints, Ash’s palms were caked in sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the evening. The person battling Professor Sycamore . . . this wasn’t _Alan_.

“Guillotine.”

“Camille, dodge!”

Professor Sycamore’s golduck performed a swift cartwheel as Alan’s bisharp charged her, his blade only just barely missing her throat. The second she was on her feet, Professor Sycamore yelled, “Disable!”

His golduck put both of her paws to her head, her eyes briefly glowing, and Alan’s bisharp staggered. Professor Sycamore grinned as Alan’s bisharp was (at least temporarily) rendered unable to to use the attack, but Alan himself showed no reaction at all save to say:

“Focus Blast.”

His bisharp righted himself, shaking his head once as if to clear it, before he thrust both of his paws out, an orange sphere gathering between them before he fired it straight at Professor Sycamore’s golduck, who once again leaped out of the way before firing back with a Hydro Pump on Professor Sycamore’s command.

It was how Alan—or rather, this . . . this _person_ , this doppelganger, this _fake_ —had been for the entire battle. He didn’t react to—to _anything_. No matter how many hits his pokémon took, no matter how they were confused, or injured, or _fainted_ , Alan showed no reaction. He never winced. He never showed surprise. He never showed any concern or care at all. And that—that wasn’t Alan. That wasn’t the Alan that had, before they had even been introduced, had his charizard rescue Pikachu from Team Rocket. That wasn’t the Alan who had mimicked his charizard’s attacks in battle, punching the air and flexing his fingers like claws every time his charizard used Thunder Punch or Dragon Claw. That wasn’t the Alan who had expressed just as much—if not even more—shock and fear as his pokémon did when they had been injured or knocked out during their League match, nor was it the same Alan who had cuddled with his charizard right there on the field when the match concluded. The Alan Ash knew was reserved, but still expressive and emotional in his own way. The Alan Ash knew—the Alan he liked, trusted, _respected_ —cared for and loved his pokémon.

But this?

“Thunder Wave.”

Alan’s bisharp picked himself up off the ground, stumbling a little and dripping with water, before he fired crackling electricity at Professor Sycamore’s golduck. The attack hit its mark; Professor Sycamore’s golduck cried out in pain, twitching and staggering under the effect of the attack. Unlike Alan, who had remained as cold as stone when his bisharp was sent flying across the tower, Professor Sycamore winced before he called:

“Camille! Are you all right?”

His golduck nodded, even as she struggled to stand upright. Across the battlefield, Alan wasted no time.

“Focus Blast.”

Professor Sycamore’s golduck tried to dodge, but paralysis held her in place, and the attack connected. She was sent flying, and even as Professor Sycamore yelled for her, Alan ordered another attack in the same emotionless, empty voice as before.

Ash felt sick.

What had _happened_ to him inside that tower?

**\- - -**

“I cannot believe this,” Xerosic repeated for what had to be the third time. Clemont pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose (they kept slipping—he needed to readjust them, but he just hadn’t had time—) and tried to tamper down his aggravation as he worked the computer system. “I cannot believe this. This cannot be. This can’t—”

“Well you better, because it is,” Clemont snapped. He slammed his hands down on the computer console before he whirled to face Xerosic and demanded, “Now what are your input codes for this system? How do I free Ash?”

Xerosic’s expression was nearly impossible to read due to his goggles (and really, how did he even _see_ with those things?), but it became easier to tell what he was thinking when his lips spread into a wide, croagunk-like grin.

“If you’re such a little genius, why don’t you figure it out?” he sneered. “Or are you unable due to your only experience being with obsolete technology?”

Every now and again Prism Tower shook under the impact of Squishy fighting its red counterpart in the city. Bonnie was somewhere down below, hopefully protected by Blaziken Mask, trying to get through to her companion. Serena was . . . somewhere, probably with Manon, but definitely in danger. Ash, Clemont had seen on the monitor, was imprisoned against the side of the tower, and Clemont had no idea where Alan was or what had happened to Professor Sycamore. All of this, plus the stress of seeing his city destroyed (and the people dead—so many people were dead, and he was the Gym Leader, he was supposed to be there for them, he was—!), left his nerves more than a little frayed, shaking beneath his skin, and so he couldn’t help but slam his fist against the console again as he said, “Shut _up_!”

“A temper tantrum. How fitting,” Xerosic said. “It isn’t more than I’d expect from a wet behind the ears brat like yourself.”

Clemont glowered at him. “Your pokémon have all been defeated. Your grunts are all in restraints—” He gestured to the lot of them, all of whom had been tied together and shoved into the corner of the room by Clemont’s pokémon, “—and you are in cuffs yourself.” He gestured to the metal coil binding Xerosic’s wrists. “Do you really think you’re in a position to be insulting me right now?”

Xerosic looked down at his bound wrists, examining them for a moment before snorting. “This is practically medieval.”

Maybe it was all of the time he had spent around Ash rubbing off on him, or maybe it was the stress of the day, but Clemont stepped forward with one fist raised and grabbed a fistful of Xerosic’s suit in his other hand. “Just shut up and tell me how to free my friend!”

“Or what? You’ll attack me?” Xerosic asked, and he snorted. “Your arms are noodles, but your temper’s fitting. Give yourself a few years of experience and you could be a Team Flare scientist. Well, if you lived beyond tonight, anyway.”

Clemont’s lips curled into a wordless, disgusted snarl, and despite how badly he still wanted to follow through on his impulse (and yeah, that was almost definitely Ash’s influence) to punch Xerosic in the face, he shoved Xerosic away from him instead. Clemont wouldn’t agree that he had _noodle arms_ (though Bonnie probably would, if she were there, and _oh_ , he hoped she was okay), but Xerosic didn’t so much as budge when Clemont released him. After taking a deep breath and counting to ten in his head to try and cool his temper, Clemont said, “Tell me how to release Ash from those restraints.” Xerosic said nothing—he only continued to stare at him—and so Clemont said more loudly, “I said, tell me—!”

“You also said you wanted me to shut up. Which is it?” Xerosic asked.

Clemont could have screamed—and he did, kind of, though he kept his lips pressed together and didn’t let more than a muffled sound leave his throat as he gripped at his hair. But as Xerosic grinned broadly in triumph once more, Clemont decided that he had had more than enough and turned to his luxray. “Lux,” he said, and he jabbed his finger at the console as Xerosic’s leer dropped into blank shock, “take it out!”

“What? What are you doing?!” Xerosic cried, as sparks flashed around Lux’s fangs and she flexed her claws. “You can’t—!”

Lux pounced, sinking her claws into the keyboard and discharging electricity through the console. It began to spark and smoke almost instantly, the monitors fizzling in and out as static and damaged pixels overtook them, but just before the device shortcircuited and cut the feed entirely Clemont saw the spherical restraints binding Ash and his pokémon release. For the first time in what felt like hours, Clemont grinned, and punched his fist into the air.

“Yes! Great job, Lux!”

Lux turned back to him with a toothy grin, and purred as she bumped her head against his shoulder.

“You irresponsible, ignorant little whelp!” Xerosic snapped. Clemont scowled as he looked back at him, and crinkled his nose when he noticed that Xerosic’s fury had caused a bit of spit to accumulate on the corner of his mouth. “Do you have any idea what you could have done? You could have blown this entire tower to pieces!

“I built the technology in this tower myself, so yes, I know exactly what I could have done, and no, it wouldn’t have self-destructed,” Clemont said. “I never built—”

“ _You_ don’t know what modifications I’ve made! I told you before, you little cretin, that this tower isn’t yours anymore! My technology far surpasses your own! You could have easily killed us both!”

“Well it wouldn’t have had to come to that had you just cooperated in the first place!” Clemont said, and as Xerosic fixed him with a look that was no less furious or appalled than before, Clemont turned toward the door that led to the roof. “Whatever, that doesn’t matter now. We’re going to the top. Your director is up there too, isn’t he? I’m sure you want to see him. Let’s go.”

“Not now that you’ve gone and freed the little messiah, I don’t,” Xerosic muttered. Clemont frowned at the nickname (of all the things they had picked to call Ash, that was one of the most absurd ones Clemont thought they could have come up with), but said nothing about it as he headed toward the door that led to the top of the tower. Seemingly against his better judgment, Xerosic followed.

**\- - -**

One moment Ash was trying to set Lysandre (who was smirking, actually _smirking_ as he watched Professor Sycamore and Alan battle, still toying with the pokéball that Ash now knew belonged to Alan’s charizard) on fire with his mind, and the next the metal spheres holding him against the tower abruptly released, dropping him (and his pokémon) unceremoniously onto the platform below.

Noivern and Talonflame managed to catch themselves in the air, and Greninja and Hawlucha had no problems landing gracefully themselves, but Ash, Pikachu, and Goodra ended up in undignified heaps on the floor, Ash’s muscles aching and still twitching from the energy (whatever it was) that Lysandre had seen fit to blast him with time and again.

“Is everyone okay?” he asked, looking around at his team. When he received nods and sounds of assent in response—and when Pikachu grinned fiercely before bounding over to leap onto his shoulders—Ash smiled. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Ash!”

“Clemont!” Ash beamed as he looked over the edge of the platform and saw Clemont race out onto the tower, staring up at him with an equally as enthusiastic smile. He looked a little roughed up—his hair was sticking up in more places than usual, his glasses were smudged and there was sweat and dirt on his face—but he looked triumphant and hopeful and that was already enough to help brighten Ash’s evening at least a little bit. “Am I glad to see you!”

“Likewise,” Clemont said. “Do you think you can get down? Do you need help? Ches—”

“Nah, we got it. C’mon, guys!” Ash slid down the side of the platform (despite Clemont’s cries about being careful), Pikachu clinging to his shoulder and the rest of his pokémon either flying or jumping down after. This time Ash managed to land on his feet, despite stumbling a little, and he smiled gratefully when Clemont grabbed his arm to steady him. “Thanks.”

Clemont smiled back. “You’re welcome.”

“Xerosic, what is the meaning of this?”

Lysandre’s voice carried easily across the platform, and both Ash and Clemont looked up (Clemont turning to look over his shoulder) to see that Lysandre was glaring coldly at the Team Flare scientist who stood by the doorway (while Professor Sycamore looked at Ash in open relief). Even in the low light of the setting sun Ash could see that a sheen of sweat had broken out over the scientist’s face, and though he started to raise his cuffed hands to wipe at his forehead, he seemed to think better of it when Lysandre’s scowl darkened.

“Di-Director, I—the boy broke the console, I couldn’t—I apologize—”

Lysandre’s eyes flickered back to Ash, but only briefly. He looked back to the ongoing battle a second later.

“That’s fine for now,” he said. “I’ll deal with him when this concludes.”

“No, you’ll deal with me now,” Ash growled, and he stepped forward as he spread his arms wide, not unlike how they had been bound against the tower. “Get over here and _fight me_ , Lys—!”

“Ash, watch out!”

Clemont grabbed Ash’s arm and pulled him out of the way as Profesor Sycamore’s golduck—having suffered another attack from Alan’s bisharp—nearly crashed into him. With Ash out of the way, Professor Sycamore’s golduck slammed into the floor of the platform instead, bouncing twice before she rolled to a stop. Ash’s anger was briefly forgotten as he watched her struggle to stand, and he turned just in time to see Alan’s bisharp charging in for another strike—a Guillotine, by the looks of it, the Disable having worn off.

“Camille!” Professor Sycamore shouted, and the tension in his voice made it clear to Ash that he felt guilty about the pain his distraction had caused her. “Aqua Tail!”

His golduck hesitated a moment, her eyes narrowed in concentration, but as Alan’s bisharp reached her and raised his bladed arms to strike, she spun around and struck him square in the face with her Aqua Tail attack, sending him flying.

Alan’s bisharp struck the ground with a metallic _thud_ , bouncing similarly to how Professor Sycamore’s golduck had. But as he had throughout the entire battle, Alan didn’t so much as blink. Instead, as his bisharp rose to one knee, he merely said, “Focus Blast.”

“What’s . . . going on?” Clemont asked, frowning as he pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Why are Professor Sycamore and Alan battling? And what’s . . . what’s going on with Alan? He seems . . . different from usual.”

“That’s what I wanna know,” Ash said. Everything else he had been feeling (joy at seeing Clemont again, rage at Lysandre dismissing him so easily) had faded when he was reminded of Alan’s disturbing behavior, and when he looked over at Xerosic and saw that a broad, gleeful smile was plastered across his face, his earlier disgust and discontent returned in full force. “Hey, you—Four-Eyes!”

The giddy smile slipped from Xerosic’s face, replaced by an indignant frown as he turned to Ash. “Excuse me?”

“Hey,” Clemont said, sounding hurt.

“Not you. Your glasses are great,” Ash said, and he gave Clemont’s shoulder a pat. Clemont looked slightly mollified, and Ash looked back at Xerosic, glowering at him. “Tell me what you did to Alan when you took him in that tower!”

“Oh, that?” Xerosic’s delighted smile returned as he looked back at the battle. His creepy glasses masked his eyes from view, but somehow, the smile alone was enough to make him look deliriously happy. “That’s Project Essentia. Isn’t it marvelous?”

“Project Essentia?” Clemont repeated, frowning, as Ash huffed an impatient sigh and said, “But what _is_ it? What did you _do_?!”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Xerosic asked, and when Ash said nothing and continued to glare at him (and Clemont, similarly, frowned), he heaved a sigh and said, “Very well, I’ll explain. Take a look at Alan, if you will. Do you see the . . . I suppose you’ll understand it best if I call it an ‘earpiece’ . . . do you see the earpiece he’s wearing? It’s the little black device plugged into his ear.”

“Yeah,” Ash said, as Clemont scowled darkly.

“Well, he has one in each ear. Each of those devices—earpieces—serves as an electronic neurotransmitter.” He paused, and then smiled. “That is to say, they serve as little communicators for his brain—”

“We know what neurotransmitters are!” Clemont snapped furiously, and Xerosic’s grin widened.

“And anyway, we don’t care about the little things like that,” Ash said, though more because he _wasn’t_ as familiar with the scientific terminology as Clemont was, but didn’t want to give Xerosic the satisfaction of asking. “Just hurry up and tell us what you did!”

“Hmph. Fine.” Xerosic nodded his head in Alan’s direction, though he didn’t look away from Ash and Clemont. “As I said, each earpiece is an electronic neurotransmitter used to regulate, distribute, and suppress different chemicals and therefore neurological functions in the subject’s body. For example, by adjusting certain chemicals released regulated by a subject’s serotonergic pathways we are able to control their body temperature, alter their sensory perception, and regulate their mood as we see fit. On the other hand, by adjusting certain chemicals regulated by a subject’s noradrenergic and dopaminergic pathways, we can alter that subject’s cognitive control and working memory to our liking.”

Ash’s head was spinning. He didn’t know what half of those words meant, and part of him wondered if Xerosic was babbling made-up nonsense in order to avoid answering the question. But when he glanced over at Clemont he saw that Clemont’s complexion was ashen, his eyes wide in clear horror.

“Of course, it isn’t as easy as I make it sound. Project Essentia has taken years to complete. We were met with many failures along the way.” Xerosic sighed, as if this pained him. “Each subject’s chemical output differs, after all. No two humans are alike even if the director views them all as the same worthless dreck, and so the chemical output for one subject is bound to vary wildly from the chemical output of another. Even with the level of control afforded to us by the neurotransmitters, too much of one chemical or not enough regulation of another made some subjects violently ill, and drove others to impulsive suicide or self-harm before we had a chance to stop them. Even now, despite all the work I have put into it, Project Essentia is not something we can simply use on someone off the street. It takes careful examination of each subject’s vitals over an extended period so that we can be sure we have made the correct neural adjustments before activating the neurotransmitters. We’ve lost too many test subjects to handle it with anything but the utmost caution now.”

“You only had Alan in there for about twenty minutes,” Ash said. Clemont was shaking beside him. “You just grabbed him and shoved those things in his ears! How was that taking enough time to make sure it would work? You—”

“Ah. Alan is a special case.” Xerosic smiled widely again. “Project Essentia was, at least in part, created for him. Did I forget to mention?”

Ash stared at him, and Clemont seemed too beside himself to say anything. Xerosic took the cue to continue.

“When the director recruited Alan he was nothing but a naïve little whelp with a charmeleon. He was clever, I will give him that. Observant. The director saw promise in him as a tool and . . . something of a pet, I think, over time.” Xerosic shrugged. “He was obedient enough, for the most part, save for a few hiccups here and there. But the director gave him a Key Stone and Charizardite. He tasked Alan with becoming stronger. In so doing, he opened the door to the possibility that Alan could one day prove to be problematic for Team Flare, something he was well aware of the moment he did it. And so, as a failsafe in case Alan ever decided to turn on his master, Project Essentia was born.”

Ash could hear his heart hammering in his ears, and on his shoulder, Pikachu bristled, static causing his fur to stand on end. “But still, you just said that you couldn’t—”

“Over the past two years and several months, Alan has dedicated himself to collecting mega evolution energy for Team Flare through his Mega Ring—you know, that bracelet he wears on his wrist.”

“Yeah, I know that much,” Ash said, annoyed.

“But that isn’t the only function his Mega Ring serves. In addition to collecting mega evolution energy and transmitting both the energy and the data collected from it to a computer center in Fleur-De-Lis Laboratories, Alan’s Mega Ring has steadily collected information on his biochemistry and other vitals. It records his pulse, blood pressure, adrenaline . . . much of this data comes from his various battles, particularly battles in which he mega evolves that charizard of his, but it can collect data on him at any point should we will it. We have steadily monitored every mental and physical fluctuation in his body over the past two years. We collected more than enough data to have an accurate read on the exact adjustments we would need to make to his brain chemistry in order to successfully carry out Project Essentia should the need arise. Well, the need arose. We were ready. And it has worked more beautifully than even I could have dreamed.” Xerosic turned back to Alan, his face once again split by an ecstatic smile. “Most subjects are simply more open to persuasion after our alterations, but not Alan. We had enough information on him to be able to assume control wholesale. His cognitive control, his memory—well, that’s ours now. Or more appropriately, the director’s.” Xerosic laughed. “The director is all he knows now. Well, I say ‘he,’ but it isn’t as if he has a sense of self anymore. He’s nothing more than an automated doll at this point. ‘It’ might be a more appropriate pronoun.”

The pounding in Ash’s ears was louder than ever, rage causing his vision to waver like a heat shimmer in the air. Pikachu was incensed too, if the claws digging into Ash’s shoulders were anything to go by, but Ash himself was so furious he barely felt it.

Clemont, on the other hand, finally snapped. “How can you say that? How can you _do_ that? How can you do _any_ of that?! Science is supposed to _help_ people, it’s supposed to make life _better_ for people, _all people_! How can you—?!”

The smile faded from Xerosic’s face in favor of a cold, condescending stare. “You are a naïve child,” he said disparagingly. “Science isn’t about paltry concepts like ‘good’ or ‘evil.’ Science is about progress—any and all progress. That is the only thing that matters.”

“Clemont isn’t—!” Ash began hotly, but Clemont cut him off.

“Call me whatever you like. I’m sick of caring about it, but I will say this: I might be a ‘naïve child,’ but I still beat the crap out of your entire team!”

“ _Yeah_! You tell him, Clemont!” Ash said, and he high-fived Clemont without looking over as Xerosic’s expression dropped into an ugly scowl. “And you know what? You’re not the only one who’s gonna get a shot. It’s my turn now.”

“Your turn?” Xerosic asked, and Clemont shot Ash a confused look as Ash took his hand and gently tugged Clemont behind him. “My team is still unconscious. Sorry, but you lost your chance.”

“Oh, we’re not going to battle, ‘cause I’ve still gotta fight Lysandre, and I’m gonna need my pokémon for that,” Ash said. “But you took over Clemont’s Gym. You strapped me and all of my pokémon up there against the tower and attacked us with some kind of weird energy beam thingie.”

Xerosic looked at him as if he had dribbled on his shirt. “That ‘weird energy beam thingie’ is—“

“ _And_ ,” Ash said, raising his voice to speak over Xerosic, “you _hurt one of my friends!_ So get _ready to rumble,_ Xerosic!” Ash grabbed the brim of his hat and spun it around to get it out of his eyes and flatten his hair against his forehead before he curled his fingers into fists. “It’s _go time_!”

**\- - -**

Augustine heard enough of the conversation taking place by the door to know that it was about Alan—to know that Ash, almost as soon as he noticed Xerosic was there, had demanded to know what had been done to Alan. More than anything, Augustine wanted to listen in. He wanted to know. He wanted to demand the answers himself. But taking his attention away from Camille once had already been costly enough, and he couldn’t afford to do it again—not when they were so close to the end of the battle.

Augustine had recalled Gabrielle before Alan’s weavile had enough time to fire a third Ice Beam. If it were any other match, he might have risked it. He trusted in Gabrielle’s ability to take care of herself, and knew that she was strong enough to handle most ice types that came her way, even if she understandably didn’t like them. But this battle was too important to take the risk; whatever was going on with Alan, Augustine knew that even if he hadn’t _led_ with Lizardon, he would eventually get there. When that time came, Augustine would need Gabrielle. Regardless of what had happened to Alan, Augustine knew—he hoped, he _believed_ —that Lizardon would not fight Gabrielle. He might fight Augustine’s other pokémon, but he had known Gabrielle from the moment he hatched. Their bond was special, much like Augustine and Alan’s own. He wouldn’t fight her. And if he refused to fight her . . . if Gabrielle could get through to Lizardon, then Augustine could get through to Alan. He was sure of it.

But throughout their battle, Alan refused to use Lizardon. After his weavile was defeated he sent out his tyranitar. When his tyranitar fell, he sent out his unfezant. After his unfezant, he called upon his metagross, and ultimately, that left him with his bisharp. Augustine was not truly familiar with any of these pokémon, having never been properly introduced to them, but he could tell that Alan had raised them well. The fact that they were each down to their second-to-last pokémon proved that well enough. But regardless of how well they were raised, Augustine didn’t understand why Alan was refusing to call upon Lizardon. Lizardon was the strongest pokémon on Alan’s team, and if his League matches were anything to go by, one that Alan had no qualms with asking for aid from. So the fact that he hadn’t yet sent Lizardon to the field was a mystery to Augustine, albeit one that—judging from the state of Alan’s bisharp—was about to be solved very soon.

“Camille, once more! Hydro Pump!”

Camille threw herself into the air, and in the split-second it took for Alan’s bisharp to realize what was happening, she launched her final Hydro Pump with every ounce of strength she had left. The attack blasted Alan’s bisharp square in the face and sent him, once again, careening across the tower before he crashed against the platform floor. This time he didn’t rise again, instead lying in a wounded, soaked heap on the steel, and—with as much apathy as he had displayed every other time—Alan wordlessly recalled him before he slipped the pokéball back in his pocket.

Augustine walked over to Camille and smiled as she turned to him, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You did marvelously, Camille,” he told her, and she smiled at his praise. “Please take a long rest, and we’ll be home before you know it.” He recalled her as her shoulders slumped in relief, and returned her pokéball to his pocket before he palmed Gabrielle’s again.

This was it. The moment of truth. Either Lizardon would fight Gabrielle or he wouldn’t, but either way, Alan had no choice but to call him to the field now. It was now or never.

But as Augustine watched, Gabrielle’s pokéball at the ready, Alan didn’t move.

His arms were limp at his sides, and his eyes were dull as he stared blankly ahead. He was completely still, save for the way the wind tousled his hair and toyed with his scarf. It was as if he had completely forgotten that they were in the middle of the battle, or as if he was one of the animatronics from the museum that “came to life” long enough to explain a concept or historical fact before deactivating again. Augustine felt a chill wash over his skin at the thought.

But there was no time to think on that. Eerie though Alan’s sudden unresponsiveness may have been, the signal it sent that the battle was over was loud and clear, and Augustine wasn’t the only one who received it. He slipped Gabrielle’s pokéball back into his pocket and crossed the distance between himself and Alan as Lysandre began to do the same from the other side of the tower. Augustine, whether it was because he was closer to begin with or because the urgency of the situation gave added haste to his strides, reached Alan first, and the moment he did so he placed both of his hands on Alan’s shoulders.

“Alan? Hey.” He squeezed Alan’s shoulders and gave him a little shake, crouching just enough so that he could get a good look at Alan’s unfocused eyes. There was no light in them, and the pallor of his skin made the dark circles beneath them all the more prominent. If he had looked unwell the night before (Augustine could hardly believe it had been less than a day since they had spoken at the stadium), he looked as if he had suffered a round or two of pneumonia now. “Come on, it’s me—Professor Sycamore. I’m here now; you’re going to be okay.”

It took a second, and was so slight that Augustine could have imagined it, but as Alan’s glassy eyes stared back into his own, something about them changed. A little bit of light, a little bit of focus . . . Alan’s brow scrunched just a little as he looked at Augustine, as if he had not only heard what Augustine had said, but had _registered_ it, and it confused him.

“Alan, come here.”

The moment passed as quickly as it came. The moment his name fell from Lysandre’s lips, Alan’s expression—if it had indeed actually changed at all—smoothed back into the impassive, vacant stare from before. He shrugged his shoulders from Augustine’s grip and took one step back before he turned to face Lysandre, his arms at his sides and his head bowed just enough so that it was clear he wasn’t making eye contact. He didn’t say anything, but his obedient response to Lysandre’s command said enough, and though Augustine was frozen for a second with his hands still outstretched toward Alan, in the next beat he curled his fingers into fists at his sides.

Lysandre stared coldly down at Alan, and after tossing the pokéball he was still holding up into the air once before he caught it again, he said, “You lost.”

As before, Alan’s response came after a brief delay. “Yes.”

“No,” Augustine said sharply. Lysandre glanced at him, though Alan didn’t move. “He only used five of his six pokémon. He hasn’t lost.” Augustine looked back to Alan as Lysandre did the same. “Alan, you still have Lizar—”

“What did I say to you prior to the match?” Lysandre interjected. Augustine glared at him, and though his nails were always kept short he could feel them digging into his palms.

“That you would not tolerate failure,” Alan answered tonelessly.

“Correct,” Lysandre said. “And what did you do?”

“I failed.”

“Correct again. And what did I say to you at Fleur-De-Lis Labs after I told you what would happen if you lost even once during the mega evolution trial?”

The delay before Alan’s response was longer this time than it had been for his previous answers, just enough so that Augustine briefly wondered if he was going to answer at all. But when Alan did finally answer, Augustine didn’t know which was worse: the answer he gave, or the now familiar monotone in which he gave it.

“You have no need for weaklings.”

“Precisely,” Lysandre said.

“Alan, you aren’t _weak_ ,” Augustine said. “And you don’t have to listen to—!”

Once more, Lysandre cut him off. “You had potential. I had hoped that you would be worthy of seeing the dawn you helped create. Unfortunately, this final display has proven to me that you are not. I have no need for weaklings, and therefore I have no place for you in the world I am going to build. Do you understand what this means?”

“Yes,” Alan said.

“Good. Then make yourself useful one last time, and dispose of yourself so I won’t have to.” For the first time, Lysandre’s cold expression shifted as his lips curled into a small smirk. “Walk off the edge of this tower.”

For a moment, there seemed to be no sound. The Zygarde were still fighting, dismantling entire buildings from the ferocity of their clash. The police and other authorities were still trying to evacuate the citizens. Somewhere in the distance, there was a helicopter. But all of that was dialed down, muted to Augustine’s ears, barely perceptible in comparison to Alan’s voice when he finally answered:

“Yes, sir.”

“No,” Augustine said, but his voice was little more than a cracked, strangled sound as Alan turned and began to walk toward the edge. “No, Alan— _Alan_ — _STOP_!”

Augustine wasn’t aware of when, precisely, he started forward. All he knew was that one moment Alan was walking so calmly toward the edge of the tower that it was almost as if he had no idea it was there, and the next Augustine had him held in a full body bear hug, dragging him back from the edge even as Alan—showing more life and energy in that one moment than he had in the entire time Augustine had been atop the tower—thrashed back against his hold. Augustine stumbled as he dragged Alan back, and that one second of off-kilter balance was enough to allow Alan to jam his right shoulder up into Augustine’s chin. Pain exploded through his jaw, enough to stun Augustine into briefly releasing him, but as Alan started toward the edge again—once again moving with all the serene grace of a sleepwalker—Augustine threw himself forward and grabbed Alan’s arm with both hands.

“Alan, listen to me— _stop_!” Augustine said, as Alan roughly tried to pull his arm free from Augustine’s grasp. He tugged violently toward the edge, Augustine digging his feet in against the platform as best he could, though given that the platform was smooth steel and Augustine’s loafers didn’t have much in the way of traction on their soles, this did him little good. “You can’t do this, do you hear me? You’ll die—”

“He doesn’t hear you, actually,” Lysandre said, and Augustine looked over his shoulder to see that Lysandre was watching the struggle with a little smirk on his lips as Ash and Clemont raced across the tower toward them, Xerosic trailing behind. “And you’ll want to be careful, Professor Sycamore. Fighting like that will only end in you either dislocating his already injured shoulder or falling right off the tower with him.”

“Neither of us is going to fall,” Augustine said through gritted teeth, though he stumbled forward a step as Alan gave another powerful tug, and Augustine noticed that he was holding Alan’s arm at an odd angle. He transferred his trip to the back of Alan’s jacket, tugging him just close enough so that he could grab Alan’s right arm instead. Alan pivoted on the ball of his foot, pulling backward as hard as he could against Augustine’s hold, one of his feet already positioned precariously on the tower edge. “Alan, wake up—!”

Alan lessened his pulling for just a second—just long enough for Augustine to let up a bit on the pressure he was exerting in the opposite direction—before he yanked himself backward again. Augustine still refused to release him, but he stumbled forward, causing Alan to tip back over the edge and Augustine to fall with him—

Until something hard clamped down on both of Augustine’s shoulders, pulling both of them back toward the main part of the platform.

“Hang on, Professor!” Clemont shouted, and Augustine looked over his shoulder to see that Clemont had saved him—had saved _both_ of them—with the mechanical arms from his backpack. But between gravity and Alan’s struggle to follow the order he was given and jump off the tower, Clemont was having a hold time holding onto them, and so Ash joined in the struggle by wrapping his arms around Clemont’s chest to hold him steady. “We’ll save you!”

“Thank you, Clemont! Ash!” Augustine said, and he looked back at Alan, whose expression had yet to twitch from the impassive mask he had resumed when Lysandre had said his name. With one hand still holding onto Alan’s arm, Augustine grabbed him by his shirt collar with the other, struggling to pull him farther back onto the platform so that the boys didn’t have to struggle as much anymore. It was incredible, really, how much of a fight it was. No longer was Alan the five-year-old that Augustine could easily carry on his shoulders, or the lanky twelve-year-old who had tripped over his own growing feet and struggled to carry a psyduck across the yard. Age and experience traveling had done a considerable amount to fill out Alan’s muscle definition, and Alan now used every bit of that to fight back against Augustine’s hold. “Alan, come on, you can wake up, you can fight this! Whatever was done to you, you can fight it—”

“It’s a brain control thing, Professor!” Ash shouted from the back. Augustine had figured as much, truly, but he still looked back for clarification. “Check out the things in his ears—it’s those!”

“They’re electronic neurotransmitters,” Clemont said, and he dug back against the steel floor in an effort to help Ash pull them all backwards. “They’ve altered his brain chemistry to make him easier to control and conditioned him to follow Lysandre’s orders. He won’t listen to you as long as that holds up—he can’t!”

Augustine looked back at Alan, and saw that he did indeed have two earpieces plugged into his ears, shiny and black against the light of the setting sun. Rage and revulsion swept through him; as much as this explained how callously Alan had behaved toward his own pokémon, as much as it explained his apparent lack of personality and awareness, the fact that Lysandre had felt it appropriate to do this to someone—had felt it appropriate to do this to _Alan_ —was, in Augustine’s eyes, unforgivable. But beneath his fury and disgust, there was still a kernel of hope, too. So far Alan hadn’t listened to much of anything, and he certainly wasn’t listening now, but before Lysandre had spoken up . . . when Augustine had spoken to Alan before . . . he could have sworn that Alan had heard him.

“Director, if I may,” Xerosic spoke up, and there was something akin to indignation in his voice beneath his trepidation. “Project Essentia took a little over two years to complete. It consumed a lot of time, resources, and effort, and it feels like something of a waste to just throw it off the tower—”

“It’s more of a waste to keep him around when he can’t battle effectively under control and will rebel at every turn if I release him,” Lysandre said. “He’s irrelevant now. What matters is that we get our plans back on schedule. How badly damaged is our equipment?”

“Very,” Xerosic said. “The little cretin they allowed to run this Gym attacked it with his luxray—”

“And I’d do it again!” Clemont said.

“Hell yeah!” Ash chimed in.

“Hmph. No matter.” Lysandre tossed the pokéball he was holding up into the air once more before he caught it again, and leered down at Ash. “There are other ways to hold him in place until we get what we want.”

“Get over here and try it, then!” Ash said.

“Ash, maybe now is not the time!” Clemont said, as Alan finally wrenched his arm free from Augustine’s grip. He pulled backwards with more force this time, wobbling as his right foot lost the platform completely, and Augustine’s refusal to let go of his shirt meant that he and the two boys holding him back were pulled forward as well.

“Well, we have to do _something_ ,” Ash said, but he spoke through gritted teeth as he fought to drag Clemont, Augustine, and Alan back to safety on the platform. “Maybe if I take down Lysandre it’ll break the mind control thing!”

“I don’t think that—”

“And even if it doesn’t, beating the crap out of Lysandre really can’t be the wrong answer here, can it?”

Augustine, for his part, thought that it sounded like a very good answer, and one that he himself would have tried to follow through on were it not for the fact that he was currently wrestling his assistant on the edge of a tower platform 900 feet in the air. He had managed to grab Alan by his right arm again, and when Alan decided to switch tactics and shove Augustine back toward the center of the platform to break his grip, Augustine turned the tables on him and bear hugged him yet again, pinning his arms to his sides and holding him as tightly as possible. Once more Alan tried to yank his right arm out of the hold to strike back at Augustine with it, but this time, Augustine wasn’t keen on giving him the chance.

But although neither Ash nor Augustine could follow through on Ash’s desire to fight Lysandre, they were not the only ones on the tower who were of the opinion that it was the right course of action to take. Out of the corner of his eye Augustine saw a blur of yellow, and that was the only warning any of them received before Pikachu launched himself at Lysandre’s face, discharging a burst of electricity the second he made contact. Lysandre’s shout was muffled by Pikachu’s fur, but even as Lysandre grasped at Pikachu in an effort to yank him off, Pikachu scrambled over Lysandre’s head and dropped back down to the tower platform, pivoting on his paws the second he landed to smack something with his tail, shouting, “Pikapi!” as he did so. The item—a pokéball, Augustine realized, the same one that Lysandre had been toying with and that he had dropped when Pikachu shocked him—sailed through the air toward Ash, who caught it with one hand as Pikachu bounded back toward him.

The surprise written across Ash’s face as he caught the pokéball suggested that he had done so purely on reflex—that between Pikachu shouting at him and the item sailing toward him, he had simply acted without thinking. But as he looked at it, his eyes lit up and his mouth split into a wide grin, even as his grip around Clemont’s chest slackened enough so that Clemont (and Augustine, and Alan) stumbled toward the edge again.

“Great thinking, Pikachu!” Ash said, and he beamed at his partner. “This is just what we needed!”

“ _Kachu,_ Pikapi!” Pikachu said, more than a touch impatiently.

“Right, here goes!” Ash pulled back his arm, and threw the pokéball into the sky with enough force to suggest he was trying to hit the sun. “Lizardon, come out!”

_Lizardon?_

Augustine whipped around (as best he could, anyway, given the struggling teenager in his arms) in time to see the pokéball burst open in the sky, and Alan’s charizard materialize from within it. Several things clicked in his head, then—several pieces to a puzzle that he hadn’t so much been unable to solve as he had ignored, even as it lay right in front of him and begged him to fit the pieces together. Lysandre claiming the pokéball wasn’t his, saying he was holding onto it for insurance, Alan never once calling upon Lizardon and Lysandre saying he had lost the battle despite Alan using only five of his six—Augustine could kick himself for how obvious it was, for how easily he had missed it, but in the face of what Alan had been turned into, his attention had been too diverted to think on it.

But that didn’t matter now. Lizardon swooped around once through the air before he flew down to land on the platform beside them, and though he cast one confused look Ash’s way, he quickly turned his great orange head back toward Alan and Augustine. Augustine couldn’t help but smile in relief; Lizardon’s eyes were bright and clear. Whatever had been done to Alan hadn’t similarly affected him.

“Lizardon, good to see you,” he said. Lizardon crooned a friendly response, but he cocked his head in confusion as he looked at Alan, who once again shoved backwards in an attempt to push Augustine off him. “Alan, hey—stop a second, look—it’s Lizardon. Will you stop fighting me long enough to say hello?”

Alan paused for only a half second before he once again tried to drag them both toward the edge, and from the other side of the tower platform, Lysandre laughed.

“The only thing he can do is follow through on the order I gave him,” he said. “That charizard means nothing to him now. You’re wasting your time and risking your life by holding on to him like that, Professor Sycamore. You would be better advised to let him go.”

“I’ll never do that,” Augustine said.

Lysandre chuckled again, but even as he did Ash said, “No, Professor. I hate to say it, but he’s right—you have to let him go!”

All eyes save for Alan’s turned to Ash, and Augustine—thinking that he must have misheard him, that he must have misunderstood, that Ash, of all people, wouldn’t say something like that—said, “What?”

“Let him go!” Ash repeated. “We can’t keep this up for much longer, and I don’t think you’re gonna get through to him—but Lizardon can save him! Let him go!”

Augustine shook his head slowly. “I can’t do that,” he said, and his throat was dry enough for his voice to crack. “I can’t just—”

“Lizardon will catch him!” Ash insisted. “He’ll be okay! You just have to trust Lizardon!”

Augustine glanced at Lizardon, who was looking back at him with an inscrutable stare, before he looked back over the edge, trying to do the math in his head. They were roughly 900 feet in the sky. With the gravity constant at 9.8 metres per second squared, if Lizardon weighed around 200 pounds—he didn’t know how much Alan weighed, but if he had to guess—but even then, that wouldn’t account for other factors, such as Flare scientists or grunts waiting to sabotage down below, or the Zygarde—

“Professor!” Ash shouted. “ _Let him go_!”

Despite Ash’s words, Augustine was holding Alan back against him more tightly than ever, enough so that while it seemed as if Alan was no longer resisting as much, Augustine knew that was less due to his determination to follow through on the command Lysandre had given him, and more to do with the fact that Augustine was crushing him a little. But even as he realized this, he held him more tightly still. He couldn’t let him go. He couldn’t. He had taken him in all those years ago with the promise of giving him a better life—with the promise of _protecting_ him, of taking _care_ of him. He had helped Alan with his spelling. He had taught him history and mathematics. He had explained the process of losing baby teeth when Alan lost his first one (and had laughed when Alan had prefaced that conversation with, “Professor, I don’t want to scare you, but—”), and had taken care of him when his winter flu turned to bronchitis. Officially, Alan had only ever been his assistant, working in the lab and living with Augustine because he had nowhere else to go. But although that’s what their relationship was on paper, for Augustine, it was more than that. _Alan_ was more than that. He wasn’t just Augustine’s assistant. He was—

“ _Professor_!”

Augustine looked at Lizardon again, who stared back at him for a long, hard moment. Then, without making a sound, Lizardon turned to stare down over the edge of the tower, his wings unfurled. Poised on the edge as he was, he looked as if he could tip over the edge at any moment.

 _Lizardon will catch him,_ Ash had said. _Lizardon will save him. You just have to trust Lizardon._

Augustine closed his eyes. This wasn’t about whether or not he trusted Lizardon. This was about whether or not he could drop his son off the side of a 900-foot tower.

But he could hear the strain in Ash’s voice as Ash yelled at him to let Alan go. He could feel the metal hands from Clemont’s invention weakening around his shoulders, not because Clemont was letting go, but because the device was reaching the end of its limit. And Alan was still pulling toward the edge, still straining against Augustine’s hold, still determined to commit suicide because Lysandre had him stripped of his own will. And Lizardon was still staring down over the edge, watching, waiting—waiting to catch Alan the moment Augustine dropped him, because Augustine had to, because Ash was right. They couldn’t carry on like this. Alan wasn’t waking up, wasn’t responding, wasn’t doing anything but struggling to get to the edge and if Augustine didn’t let him go, then they were all going with him. Lizardon couldn’t save all of them.

But even that—even that thought wasn’t enough to stop Augustine from taking a hitched breath beneath his teeth, pressing his face into Alan’s hair for just a moment.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t do this. But he had to. He had no choice. He had to let him go—and Lizardon would save him, Lizardon had to save him, Lizardon had to _be able_ to save him—he could, he would, he _had to_ —

With his eyes still squeezed tightly shut, Augustine loosened his grip, and then let his arms fall back by his sides.

The mechanical hands gripping his shoulders slackened before letting go completely, but what caused Augustine’s eyes to snap open wasn’t that, but was instead the rush of wind that blew past his cheek. Alan was no longer on the platform, and neither was Lizardon; the last Augustine saw of either of them was a flicker of flame by the platform’s edge, a little wisp of smoke curling on the air.

They were gone. Alan was gone, and Lizardon would save him, but Alan was gone because Augustine had let him go. Someone—Lysandre, Augustine thought—was saying something behind him, and Ash shouted something in response, but in that second all Augustine was really aware of was the chill of the wind against the tears that raced down his cheeks, and the sting of his hitched breaths against his parched throat.

But with each passing moment, the reality of the situation set in and set Augustine’s nerves on fire. The shock that had rendered him all but numb was quickly wearing off; he could feel each breath rattling in his chest, could feel the burn in his eyes from the hot tears that would not be held back, could feel his entire body shaking violently as he became more and more aware of the words being spoken just behind him on the tower. Ash was yelling, Xerosic was speaking, Ash was yelling more and Clemont was joining in—but that didn’t matter, none of that mattered, because Alan had jumped (or walked, it didn’t matter which) off the tower because Lysandre had told him to, because Lysandre thought Alan’s life had no value, because Lysandre had somehow found it _funny_ enough to laugh as he told Augustine that trying to save him was futile.

“. . . never gonna let you do that, do you hear me?!” Ash screamed, and Augustine turned back toward him to see that all of his pokémon had once again rallied around him, Pikachu leading the pack with his cheeks sparking dangerously. “If you want to destroy this world, then you’re gonna have to go through me first! Come and get it!”

“No,” Augustine said. He tried to raise his voice—to at least meet Ash’s volume, which was sure to carry out over the city by this point, at least halfway—but he couldn’t. It didn’t seem to matter; all eyes turned to him as he crossed the tower platform to stand in front of Ash and his pokémon, all of whom looked bewildered. “Stand back. This is my fight now.”

“What?” Ash asked. “But . . . but Professor, I—”

“I thought I already said that I have no intention of fighting you?” Lysandre asked. He almost sounded bored, if not for the little smile on his lips. “You’ve done what you came here to do, haven’t you? You should leave now. For your own benefit.”

“The only one who would benefit from my leaving is you,” Augustine said in a low voice, as he palmed Gabrielle’s pokéball in one hand and his Key Stone in the other. “And at this point I really don’t give a damn what your intentions are.”

He pressed the center button on Gabrielle’s pokéball once to maximize it before he let it fall from his grip, and she appeared in a burst of light after her pokéball smacked against the tower platform. Augustine caught her pokéball on the rebound, and squeezed his Key Stone in a tight grip as he pointed toward Lysandre.

“Gabrielle, that man over there hurt Alan,” he said, and he could feel the Key Stone growing hot in his palm—hotter by the second as Gabrielle’s hiss began to build into a vicious snarl, her reptilian eyes trained on Lysandre. “It’s time for us to show him what a very bad idea that was.”


End file.
